


The heartbeat of the world

by irisdouglasiana



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Kind of canon divergent, overly intense weirdos, you are too dramatic as always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-04 05:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13357314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisdouglasiana/pseuds/irisdouglasiana
Summary: The Lord had been testing Heahmund mightily of late, and the worst part of it was that His voice had somehow gone silent in the bishop’s head for the first time in his life. The dead come to visit Heahmund in his cell instead.(Now with Ivar's POV.)





	1. Chapter 1

The Lord had been testing Heahmund mightily of late, and the worst part of it was that His voice had somehow gone silent in the bishop’s head for the first time in his life. The dead come to visit Heahmund in his cell instead.

He thinks it must be fever, in the beginning; he’s certainly ill after his capture at York even though he takes great pains to hide it from his captors. The truth is that he is utterly exhausted, and after two days in chains and hour after hour of prayer his eyes are growing heavy and his ears are ringing, and he’s on the verge of passing out when he registers that his older sister is standing in front of him. She died four years ago.

“Esther,” he groans, and she reaches out to touch his forehead. He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he is alone.

She is not his only visitor. The next one is a soldier who was killed at York; Heahmund had been standing next to him when the arrow pierced the man’s eye. The bishop never knew his name. He paces back and forth behind Heahmund, arrows still sticking out of him, and he barely takes notice of the prisoner. Heahmund catches glimpses of him out of the edge of his vision, but when he turns his head to look, the man disappears.

When his fever breaks and the dead keep coming, he decides it must be the devil come to torment him further. He tells this to the apparition of Father Oswald—his mentor has been dead for over a decade—and the man laughs and slaps his belly. “Too funny, my friend,” he says, shaking his head, though Heahmund has difficulty seeing the humor in any of this. Then Heahmund blinks and Oswald is gone.

The mad Northman, however, is no illusion. Heahmund had truly thought him to be a demon in the beginning, a creature that had slithered out of the depths of Hell, but it is different off the battlefield. Sitting in the shadows just a few feet from Heahmund, legs stretched out comfortably in front of him, asking idle and not-so-idle questions: it is clear that whatever else this son of Ragnar Lothbrok is, he is indeed a man. Not much more than a boy, really, with all the insecurities and overconfidence of a boy his age—albeit a boy that had mercilessly slaughtered Christians, conquered two kingdoms, and taken York without batting an eye.

“You are much alike,” his sister observes on her next visit.

“I have nothing in common with him.”

Esther raises an eyebrow. “He’s a contrarian, too,” she says, and Heahmund can hardly disagree with that.

* * *

On the sixth day, Heahmund closes his eyes and hears the steady drip of rain on the roof, the squeaking of a mouse in the corner, the clinking of the chains around his wrists. “Lord, I am nothing without you. Please, speak to me once more. Guide me. Forgive me.”

There is no reply, but then there is a rustling noise, and Heahmund opens his eyes to see the Northman crawling over to him with an expression of genuine curiosity on his face. “Does your god answer you?” he asks without mockery.

 _No._ “If it pleases Him to do so.”

“Oh. Is that a no, then?” He drags his legs around with a grunt, leans back against the wall, and waves for Heahmund to continue.

So he does, cycling once more through the familiar prayers and devotions with no audience except the heathen, who watches with rapt attention.

* * *

Father Oswald comes to see him again, this time chewing on a piece of roasted chicken. Heahmund can almost smell it and it makes his mouth water, but he focuses on the matter at hand. “If you are not a trick sent by the devil, Father, what is the purpose of this? What is God asking of me? Why can I no longer hear Him?”

“Have you considered that you might be going mad?”

“That thought had also occurred to me,” Heahmund snorts. “Thank you.”

Oswald tosses the bone away and wipes his face with his sleeve. “The truth is, we always thought you were a bit mad to begin with, my boy,” he says with a shrug.

“You did?” Heahmund asks, but Oswald is already gone.

* * *

The sunlight dances off the water as their boat leaves England behind. Heahmund tests his chains once more and then lets his gaze settle on the vast ocean in front of them. Better not to look back at those grassy hills, those cliffs, those forests, the land he calls home. Better not to dwell on the possibility that he might never see them again; that he might die alone in a foreign country, surrounded by pagans. No, his focus must be on God’s kingdom, not the kingdoms of man. If this is truly God’s plan for him, then so be it.

And yet. And yet.

He raises his voice. “Lord, I am your faithful servant. Deliver me from my enemies, from these wicked and unrighteous men; show no mercy to these heathens who have slaughtered the innocent and destroyed our towns and sacred places—"

One of the Northmen slaps Heahmund’s head. “Shut up.”

“Quiet,” Ivar snaps, glancing over his shoulder at them. “Leave him be.”

* * *

The dead soldier has followed them to Harald’s kingdom, to the new cell they have imprisoned Heahmund in. He listens as the man paces about: five steps in one direction, turn, five steps in the other direction, turn. Over and over. The sound of his footsteps echo from the rafters. Suddenly, he stops and seems to see Heahmund for the first time. “It _hurts_ ,” the soldier says, and his voice is filled with grief and pain. “Oh, it hurts to die.”

Heahmund recites the psalm for him. _For though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I will fear no evils, for thou art with me…_

The soldier vanishes before he’s finished. Heahmund doesn’t see him again after that.

* * *

The Northmen release him from his chains and allow him to roam more or less freely, but the visits from the dead continue. At some point, he stops recognizing them. Men, women, and children; Saxons and Northmen; Christians and heathens. Some with grievous wounds, some unmarked. Some speak to him, others ignore him. Some are strangely familiar.

These are not Heahmund’s dead, he realizes, but someone else’s.

* * *

“Do you have brothers, Bishop?”

Heahmund looks up from the chessboard. “Two older brothers, yes. I had an older sister as well.”

Ivar captures a pawn. “Ah, you are the youngest. So am I.”

“Tell me about your brothers,” Heahmund says as he considers his next move.

“Bjorn is the oldest of Ragnar’s sons, then Ubbe, then Hvitserk—” Ivar raises his cup to his brother, sitting across from him and next to Heahmund, “—and poor little Ivar, the last.”

“You seem to have done well for yourself.”

“I have indeed,” Ivar chuckles. “Tell me, do you fight with your brothers?”

Heahmund makes his move. “I haven’t seen them in years. But we argued when we were young, perhaps more than we should have.”

“Brothers fight, brothers argue. Brothers betray each other. Isn’t that right, Hvitserk?” The inflection in his voice suggests a trap; some ugliness Heahmund isn’t privy to.

“Some brothers tell lies about brothers,” Hvitserk answers blandly, and for a moment Heahmund thinks Ivar might lunge across the table and strangle Hvitserk.

But he doesn’t. The spasm of rage passes from Ivar’s face, and he slips out of his chair and crawls away without a word, leaving Heahmund alone with Hvitserk at the table. Hvitserk looks down and toys with the cup in his hand and says nothing.

* * *

Heahmund has a new visitor that night; a Northman with curly blond hair and a gaping wound just below his ribcage. He leans up against the wall and focuses his attention on the bloody axe in his hand. He doesn’t acknowledge Heahmund’s presence. “He’s crazy,” the Northman mutters to himself, running his finger along the sharp edge. “He’s crazy.”

Heahmund doesn’t have to ask who.

* * *

It has been decided they will attack Kattegat in two days’ time, and the Northmen celebrate late into the night. Heahmund tries to hang back in the shadows—he has no interest in speaking to these heathens, nor they to him—but Ivar, of course, waves him over to the table and gestures for Heahmund to sit down beside him. Ivar doesn’t drink as heavily as his brother, but he’s had more than usual tonight, and it doesn’t entirely surprise Heahmund when the boy puts his hand down on the bench just next to Heahmund’s thigh. Too close to be an accident.

The bishop faces straight ahead. He shifts his body slightly, widening the gap between them, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ivar pull his hand away.

* * *

“I never asked Ragnar why he brought his son with him to England,” King Ecbert says in the early hours before dawn, rousing Heahmund from his sleep. The dead king is sitting on the ground with his legs drawn up in front of him, wearing a plain white robe stained with dirt, sweat, and soot. Heahmund stays silent. “Why this son, and not the others? There was no reason for him to go to all that trouble. And yet I never asked. Perhaps I did not want to hear the answer.”

“You underestimated the boy.”

“And the father. A failure of the imagination,” Ecbert agrees. “I paid the price for it. I pray you will not repeat my mistake.”

“I am sorry we could not save you, my king,” Heahmund says. “I regret it deeply.”

“No need for that. What is done is done, Bishop. My story is complete, but yours is still being written.” Ecbert reaches out and takes Heahmund’s hands in his. His grasp feels solid and real, and his eyes are full of warmth. “Don’t be afraid.”

* * *

His final visitor is a monk, a man with dark shaggy hair and a neat beard. He appears to Heahmund on the dock not long before their departure for Kattegat, and there is something familiar about him that Heahmund can’t quite place. “You don’t recognize me,” the monk says with a trace of amusement. He doesn’t wait for Heahmund to answer. “But here you are, Bishop Heahmund, sailing with the sons of Ragnar to kill the other sons of Ragnar. The Northman casts a long shadow, even in death. Perhaps especially in death.”

“You knew him.”

“I did.” The monk turns his attention from Heahmund to stare at the sea. “I knew him, and I loved him. Despite it all.”

Heahmund studies the man’s face. “You say you loved him. The heathens would say that was fate. What does your love matter, if you did not choose it out of your own free will?”

The monk looks at him steadily. “I think it was fate that brought me to Ragnar, and it may be that fate led you to Ragnar’s son. But we get to choose what happens after that. God has a purpose for us all, but our paths are not fixed, and His will may be very different from what we expect.”

The breeze picks up and sends a chill through Heahmund. He should call the monk's words heresy, but for some reason his voice catches in his throat.  “I fear my faith is not strong enough,” he confesses. “God no longer speaks to me. I don’t know what to do.”

Athelstan smiles gently. “God never stops speaking to us. Sometimes, we have to learn how to listen.”

Then he is gone. Heahmund listens to the waves lap up against the dock. The seagulls squawking overhead. The creaking of the boats, the scraping of metal as the blades are sharpened, the voices of men preparing for war. His own breathing. His heartbeat. The heartbeat of the world. Heahmund hears it all, and weeps.

_And thy mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and that I may dwell in the house of the Lord unto length of days…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still attempting to wrap my head around those last few episodes and make sense of it all, but boy, it's not easy.

Ivar does not see the dead, but they whisper in his ear sometimes. They speak to him in foreign tongues, in fear and anger, in joy and despair, and although he does not always answer, he hears them all.

* * *

Helga comes to him on the journey back to Kattegat. He is absorbed with thoughts of destiny and revenge as he watches Harald’s ships cutting through the water alongside his own, and it startles him to hear her voice.

“Can you not be reconciled?”

Ivar looks up. It sounds as though she is sitting right beside him. _Ubbe has betrayed me for Lagertha, and Bjorn will never turn against his mother,_ he tells her silently. _They must pay._

“Reconcile with your brothers. Reconcile with Ubbe,” she urges. “You are both too proud, but you must do it. You know what your heart cannot bear. If you kill them, you will kill yourself too. You know this, Ivar.”

He knows it. _Don’t tell me what to do, woman._

“Ivar,” she repeats gently. He hadn’t known for days that she had died, as preoccupied as he had been with Ecbert and revenge, not until Bjorn had told him.

_I killed Sigurd. Maybe I am fated to kill all my other brothers, too._

“Perhaps. But perhaps not.” Her voice is amused. “You are too dramatic, as always.”

“I am not,” he says out loud, and he turns his head and catches a glimpse of pale blond hair out of the corner of his eye. But then it is gone, and all that is left is the boat, the men, and the open ocean. And Heahmund, leaning back against the mast and staring up at the sky, mouth moving in prayer. The Christian seems to sense Ivar watching him, because he lowers his gaze and stares back, unafraid. Almost a smile on his lips. Almost like he knows.

* * *

The priest he killed at York speaks to him from time to time, an endless string of prayer mixed with frantic pleading, _have mercy on me, O Lord, for I have cried to thee all the day no no no oh please no…_

On and on he goes. Ivar grinds his teeth together but he has no way to block him out. He wishes he could kill the man all over again.

* * *

“You told me you always have a plan,” Hvitserk says, his voice pitched low enough so only Ivar can hear him. To save time, Ivar has shed the braces and Hvitserk carries him back to their side so they can regroup before the battle. There is an undercurrent of bitterness in his tone. “Was this your plan all along? Is it really just a joke to you? Tell me the truth, for once.”

“I always tell you the truth.” Ivar adjusts his grip on his brother’s shoulders. His hands are still sticky with the mead he threw in Ubbe’s face. He sees Hvitserk shake his head slightly, and in that moment Ivar knows with absolute certainty that his brother will betray him, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. His knife is within reach and he could cut Hvitserk’s throat right now if he wanted; why should he wait to be betrayed—

Hvitserk suddenly stumbles and almost drops Ivar, and for a second Ivar feels sick as the ground rises up to meet him; the same kind of vertigo he had felt when he walked with the braces for the first time and looked down and realized how much further he could fall. But Hvitserk manages to catch himself in time. He regains his balance and picks up the pace.

It was Ubbe who had carried Ivar after he had grown too large for their mother to pick him up. Hvitserk would carry him on occasion, and Sigurd would only take him grudgingly, as if Ivar was doing this solely to inconvenience him (and in fairness, that was sometimes true). But Ubbe carried him without complaint, even when Ivar teased him— _faster, donkey!_ —trusting that his older brother would never drop him. Not on purpose.

_If you can forgive me, Ivar…_

Then again, Ubbe had never really known him. None of them ever had.

At last, Hvitserk drops to his knees and Ivar slides off his back and onto the ground. Still panting, he takes a seat beside Ivar and looks him in the eye. “I ask you again. Was this your plan all along?”

“No,” Ivar says shortly. “No, it was not.”

* * *

_Win or lose, you lose._

They lose.

* * *

Everyone is gone: Bjorn sailing back to Kattegat to rejoin Lagertha, Hvitserk slinking off to gods know where, Harald gazing at Ivar with contempt and then taking Astrid by the arm and leading her away, all of his men and Harald’s men dismissed. It is then that Sigurd speaks to Ivar as he sits by himself on the floor of Harald’s great hall.

“They hate you. I hate you,” Sigurd says in his ear. “I always hated you, Mommy’s boy. I hated that she loved you more than me. And for what? For crawling around like a snake; like a worm?”

“Shut your mouth.” Ivar tightens his grip around his cup.

“You think you’re special because Father took you to England? You really think he meant for _you_ to lead the army?” Sigurd’s voice drips with loathing. “You want to know the truth, Boneless? He only took you because none of us would go with him, that’s all. He was desperate. We knew the gods no longer favored him, and we were right. You’re nothing, you’re nobody, you’re not even a man—”

“Shut up!” He hurls the cup across the room so hard it breaks when it hits the wall, and Sigurd goes silent. There’s nothing else within reach for him to throw. He buries his face in his hands and sobs.

* * *

The sky is just starting to lighten over Kattegat when Harald joins Ivar down by the river. The battle is only hours away, and the anticipation coils in Ivar’s stomach. Many warriors will feast in Valhalla tonight. And Lagertha will be dead, and he will be king.

“So you will have your revenge soon, if the gods will it,” Harald says as he kneels down and splashes water on his face, letting it drip down his beard and onto his clothes.

“There is no doubt in my mind.”

Harald chuckles. “I see that; I see that. And afterwards…?”

Ivar wipes his hands and scoots backwards up the riverbank. “Perhaps I ought to settle down and farm, since everyone tells me that is what Ragnar would have wanted,” he says dryly. “But no one will remember my father for being a farmer.”

“He will be remembered as a great warrior and leader, and as the father of many fine sons.” Harald smiles, gazing at the shore on the opposite side of the river. “I will be a father soon, as well.”

“I am jealous,” Ivar admits.

“It is a wonderful thing, to have children. I hope for a son, but I would not mind to have a small shield maiden. And this will only be the first,” Harald muses. He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I only wish I had not waited so long to marry. I wasted years and years for a woman who broke my heart. Otherwise I might already have as many sons as your father did. I should have started when I was your age, eh?”

“Mm.” Ivar leans forward. “And if your child is born crippled, what will you do?”

A muscle jumps in Harald’s jaw. “That will not happen.”

“In my experience, it happens,” Ivar grins, spreading his hands.

A long moment passes before Harald speaks again. “You know the ways of our people.”

“Of course.” He shrugs. “Don’t look so upset, Harald. It was only a question. But worthy of consideration, I think.”

“It will not happen,” Harald says again, with a little less certainty. He brushes the water from his beard and stands up. “You did not answer me. What will you do after you have your revenge?”

“I don’t know. We shall see what the gods have planned for me, but I believe I am destined for greater glories, even beyond what Ragnar achieved.”

Harald shakes his head. “You are overly dramatic.”

“So I’ve been told.”

* * *

He spots Heahmund down on the battlefield, fighting at Lagertha’s side with the sword Ivar gave back to him. The Christian looks up and gives him a nod, and though he doesn’t know it yet, he seals his fate. The priest will finally get to meet his god. He just doesn't realize how much it will hurt.

* * *

His first order as king is to tear down all of Lagertha’s banners and shields. All of the bedding and all of the clothes Lagertha left behind in the room where he had spent most of his childhood. He rips them up and feeds them to the flames himself. If he can’t have the satisfaction of killing her yet, he can at least remove all traces of the bitch. Erase her from memory. He’ll burn Kattegat to the ground before he gives it up.

* * *

“Ivar.”

He had wondered how long it would be before she spoke to him. Lying alone in his parents’ bed, he opens his eyes. “Mother, I have not forgotten my promise. I will avenge you.”

Her voice is faint, as though she is somewhere very far away. He counts the seasons since he last saw her, standing on the dock with tears in her eyes. He can still see it perfectly. How many more seasons will pass before her face begins to fade from his memory? “You drowned. I saw it in my vision. You will die, Ivar.”

“Of course I will die,” he says. _Valhalla awaits._ “We all die.”

Aslaug’s voice is infinitely sad. “That is true. But there is dying, my son, and then there is drowning yourself slowly. I hope you know the difference.”

He cannot sleep after that. So he slides out of bed and makes his way to the great hall and heaves himself up onto the throne. His throne. Suddenly, he is a boy again; his legs dangling over the edge, feet not quite touching the ground. How many nights did he sit there and wait, believing that at any moment, the doors to the hall would swing open and Ragnar would come striding in? How many nights did he squeeze his eyes shut, thinking if he just tried hard enough, he could make his legs work and then he could go out into the world and bring his father back? Even as the months became years and his brothers began to mutter that surely their father was dead, Ivar never believed it; nobody could kill Ragnar Lothbrok, nobody—

He watches the doors and holds his breath. This is the part of him that is still waiting for his father to come home. Will always be waiting.

And there he is, standing at the entrance of the hall with the moonlight casting eerie shadows behind him, and Ivar finally understands that just as he has been waiting for Ragnar, so has Ragnar been waiting for him all this time.

“What are you looking at?” Ivar says hoarsely. His voice comes out as barely more than a whisper. “Idiot.”

Ivar can’t quite tell in the light, but he thinks Ragnar is smiling. His father steps up to the throne, chains clinking around his wrists, and Ivar forces himself not to shrink away. He closes his eyes and shudders when he feels Ragnar press his forehead up against his own. The warmth of his breath. _Father. I still need you._

He slows his breathing to match Ragnar’s until his father’s breath becomes his breath. Ragnar’s heartbeat, his own. And then he is alone once more. He blinks away his tears and watches the shadows creep across the hall, following the path of the moon. He reaches out to grasp the light, but it slips between his fingers and is lost.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm living dangerously here by writing this without having seen the show all the way through, so please feel free to let me know if I need to make corrections.
> 
> Since I'm sure my huge audience of biblical critics is dying to know, I used the Douay-Rheims Bible for the psalm. It's not the prettiest version, but it seemed more appropriate than the other ones I looked at.
> 
> EDIT post 5x09: I don't know what's going on in this show anymore, man. I really don't.


End file.
